A labyrinth as evergreen as prejudice. Populated with white cone-shaped masks. There are no faces under the masks, just a pair of mute CCTV lenses.

Assigned to every tenth mask, there is a red femme with a white wonder nose. Now, every second femme is busy cradling a baby and every now and then they pick a mask and shoot it with a golden gun. The bullets make red flowers blossom on the masks’ bodies, but masks don’t seem to get troubled that much about it.

Unlike a handful of males crawling around, collared and leashed with latex balaclava pulled over their heads. They lack the privilege of getting a golden bullet and being spied on.

(oil on canvas)
artist and title unknown

First of all, there is no uninvited relative demanding retaliation in this story. Instead, a board of certified wizards meets and declares a major threat for the sleeping beauty. It is the linen barb or anything you get rid off moaning sadly once it is driven under your skin, no matter you’re a fish or a part-time receptionist.

The tale carries on with a simple plot. There is an accident obviously involving the beauty and the barb and the whole kingdom falls into a coma. “Even the partridges and pheasants being prepared for the royal table fall asleep, not mentioning the fire.” says the narrator.

Here comes the prince. He breaks in the golden chamber, finds the beauty, but fails to wake her up despite the fact he has a paramedic course. The prince is by no means discouraged and falls in love with the beauty anyway. They live together practising an open relationship and in nine months time, the beauty, still asleep, gives a birth to sleeping twins. The prince remains the only entity in the kingdom retaining consciousness, though he forgets why the hell he ended up there.

installed at the Museum of Installation, London

Two chairs, one room….sitting in their corners, looking at each other.

One spotless, shiny, mint, the other a burnt torso, with toothless backboard.

One encircled with a ring of hundreds of smashed eggshells, the other being a ring itself with a hole as a gaping memory of what once used to be a platform bravely absorbing all a well-fed bottom can offer.

One can smell a diagonal line, unspoken, unseen, connecting the chairs without asking first.

The shiny one poses like a fresh Spanish Riding School graduate, one of its legs flamingo bended, about to flatten the last intact egg, while the wreck opposite guards a volcano of ashes with a dry egg blinking out of its gullet.

One untouched but busy destroying all its hooves can reach, the other destruction itself.
Pride and fall.

Armanda Spice

Chair I

(installation)

Phase one – a walk through indoor infinity

Me standing next to me, next to yet another me,
followed by a line of about a sextilion of…me.
The landscape made of mirrors gets quite crowded by “me”, it is honestly filled up to the horizon.

Phase two – a tripple monologue

Me as a figure facing an imaginary auditorium. Me as a second figure watching
the third me which lurks from equally imaginary backstage.
Three be or not three be?

Wendy Bornholdt
Subspace
(installation – box of mirrors)

Some standing, some rolling about on the floor – that’s a band of birds who managed to laugh their beaks off. They all grin at me with their tiny strange mouths full of thin sharp teeth. Few of them go through something which could be identified as massive fits of happiness – as being granted a mouth means they no longer need to twist their necks horizontal, when there is a need to say “cheese”. The birds’ glossy nylon fur, that makes a cheap but cool alternative to otherwise very unaffordable feathers, shine, shine, shine.
ANNIE WHILES
HA
(mixed media beakless birds)

Sand scratches under soles, solid damp walls form a web of corridors – narrow and blind.

Stepping out of darkness while making no move at all – objects.

Wardrobe. (A couple of doors in fact, but such a resemblance is much better to handle)

It’s doors opened a bit. There’s a strip of light leaking out – it runs across the floor

and rests against the wall. The light doesn’t come from inside the wardrobe though. It just acts that way. It gives the wardrobe a false hope it contains something – a swarm of fireflies or a figure holding a torch that burns with no drive to fume.
2 Doors (Remembering my father) (2000)

Door, slide projector, shoes

Door.

Light licks the treshold.Seems to be a day behind the door’s mat glass belly.I grip the

door handle, expecting to get a proper shower of light. Nothing.
On (2000)

Functioning door, neon, perspex

Table, book, candle.

All wearing the light of their own projected selves.
Imaginary Light (2000)

Table, extinguished candle, book, slide projection

Boat

Fast asleep, with night sky reflected by the boat’s own petrified sea. The night stands still, holding its breath.
The Sea of Unknowing (1996)

Modified wooden boat, black pigment, water, toy boat and nightlight

David Johnson

There’s a girl. An embroidered one, busy reducing the blue in her eyes. Rays and rays of blue cotton thread come out; she acts as if stringing a guitar, tightening the thread, rolling it round her palm. The thread leaves her eyes, leaves the frame defining her 2D self, there is less and less of her, soon she will be with us, enjoying the extra dimension…alas acquiring a form of a thread ball.

Clare Heathcote ( thread on line)

Quite a lot of people, enough to call them a crowd – they’re all projected onto an A4 plastic tablet. Watching them makes one feel like observing a microculture busy getting on with life – a pulsing matrix of grainy and liquid existence. There are several holes in the tablets – plug holes. The crowd flows off, individuals released one at a time, materialising in the darkness under the tablet.

Sarah Jones – A countenance (instalation)

In a park. Three lamps illuminating four paths – four concurrent lines in a green field intersecting somewhere outside infinity. There are people walking, clinging hard to those lines. Despite each of them maintaining a fair level of uniqueness, there is an overall impression of the people fitting into a sort of a slot. Passing the lamps, they obey the rules of organised chaos – different speed, different directions, different expectations – but the slot driving them unites them all. The light keeps fading, gradually wiping out the paths, desaturating the green field, when it is just the lamps remaining. Now, the lamps are a bit reluctant to admit the existence of anything else. Nothing, but lamps. Nothingness.

Nick Stewart

(video)

Taiyo KimuraUntitled
Nineteen figures most likely made of clay. Their naked bodies with no evidence of sex to be spotted are crammed in a box covered with a crystal clear sheet of glass. Standing there next to each other, they’re rather busy squeezing their necks with their hands as if trying hard to get some air. The thing is, none of them happens to have a head to do that job. Seemingly, the heads sit on the necks, but there is a little problem…the glass separating them from the bodies. Eyes bulged out, tongues stuck out. In the vain quest for oxygen.

coming soon